


Would you like a blowjob with that?

by Aethelar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (well it's a bakery 'cos it's Jacob's but that still counts), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, also Newt has no verbal filter and would like the earth to swallow him now please, now featuring mini!Credence as Graves' son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-07 23:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: Newt is Totally Acing this new job of his, provided you overlook every scrap of evidence to the contrary.





	1. Chapter 1

Allow me to introduce you to Newt Scamander. He’s tall, quite tall, and he’s a redhead - his hair is all curly and floppy, it’s really quite adorable. He has freckles, a lopsided half-smile, and a tendency to talk with his hands.

He is also, at this particular point in time, covered head to toe in icing sugar.

“Oh god.”

So is the rest of the kitchen.

“_Oh god._”

I should also mention, perhaps, that this is day three of Newt’s new job at Kowalski’s Bakery, and up until now he thought it had been going pretty well. He’d mastered the army of cleaning products. He’d discovered that croissants are not, in fact, a half hour job. He’d worked out how to stack the trays in the oven so the bread browned evenly. He’d even produced a passable cup of coffee from the machine out front. What he had _not_ done was to fully realise what would happen when he turned the giant stand mixer on _high_ when it was full of icing sugar and butter.

He now knows that what happens is akin to a large, all encompassing, icing sugar explosion.

“Oh my _actual god_ I’m fired, I’m dead, it’s on the _ceiling_ oh _god._”

“Newt?” Jacob called, pushing through the swing door to the kitchen. “How are you getting on with the - oh.”

Newt may or may not have whimpered. It was hard to say.

“Mr Kowalski sir I can - I mean, I’ll clear it up, I’ll - uh - ohgodi’msorryohgod.”

Jacob shakes his head at him with a calming smile, already unbuttoning his cuffs to roll his sleeves. “Don’t worry yourself,” he says, because Jacob is a genuine _saint. _“You should see some of things I do when my mind wanders. Here, pass us the cloth, would you? I’ll handle this, you watch the counter for a bit. It’s pretty quiet out there at the moment, but let me know if you need anything.”

Newt nods frantically, scrambling for the cleaning cloth and passing it over with perhaps more haste than a terry cloth deserved. He’s halfway out the door to the front before Jacob throws a tea towel at the back of his head, waving a hand at Newt’s sugar-covered face with a meaningful raised eyebrow.

Six minutes later, a mostly sugar-free Newt stands behind the counter. His badge is clipped on (backwards, but on), his hair is at roughly normal levels of disaster, and he has successfully served one of the regulars a cup of tea and a chocolate muffin. Navigated getting change from the till and everything. Whatever it is Jacob went into the kitchen to deal is now being dealt with and glorious baking smells are once again filling the room, and maybe, maybe Newt’s third day will not be the day he gets fired. Maybe.

It’s at this point that Holy Fuck He’s Hot walks into the bakery.

“Morning,” Genuinely Are You Seeing This, He’s _Divine_ says distractedly. “Black coffee please.”

“Would you like a blowjob with that,” Newt says, demonstrating yet again how his brain-to-mouth filter was out to kill him and why he should not be allowed out of the house by himself.

Those Eyebrows Will Kill Me I Swear To God blinks in confusion. “What?”

And Newt, in what is possibly the most embarrassing moment of his _entire life_, gives a single high pitched laugh, shoves the nearest piece of cake at the man, babbles out: “No coffee, cake on the house, thankyoubye!” and hides under the counter.

Under. The counter.

He can still see Good Grief He Shines His Shoes standing literally three feet away from him, and even his neatly tied shoe laces somehow manage to look perplexed. After a full two minutes and seventeen seconds (Newt counted) The Reason Newt Was Going To Get Fired, For Real This Time shuffles around and leaves. He stops once at the door, maybe looking back, maybe not, maybe if Newt weren’t still wedged under the counter in terror he’d know, then the bell over the door jangles merrily and he leaves.

Newt wriggles out from his hiding place. A quick check that Jacob is still in the kitchen, a tug to resettle his crooked apron, and he’s good to go again. Because that never happened. No sir. Never.

…

Shame, though. The blowjob would have been _spectacular_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered that I actually had a mini continuation for this piece, so here, have Graves returning with bonus mini!Credence in tow

The next time Graves and Newt meet in the bakery, not only does Graves have a reusable coffee cup that he kind of shoves at Newt like a shield (Newt stares and this, this is actually love, who knew that being responsible about the environment was such a turn on) but he _also_ has a mini-Graves tagging along behind him.

Specifically, a tiny, six year old Credence, whose nose wrinkles in confusion as he stares between a frozen Graves hiding behind his coffee cup and a Newt stuck firmly in fantasy number twelve, the one with the beach in Costa Rica and the sun tan lotion, and the swimming trucks that are dipping just that _little_ bit too low as though they were going to sliiiiiide down a fraction, and -

Tiny!Credence snaps his fingers and declares loudly:

“Daddy, that’s the cute guy, right?”

Silence.

Deafening, time-shattering silence.

“The guy you were talking out,” Credence continues doggedly. “With the floofy hair.” He squints at Newt. “His hair is kinda floofy. Why does he have chocolate in his hair, daddy?”

Crickets.

Crickets, and the sound of Newt’s brain stuck in a loop on the word _Daddy_.

Oh, and that other sound is Graves desperately flapping at Credence and trying to get him to shut up.

“But I’m right,” Credence protests. “He _is_ your cute guy. Is he going to give you a blue job?”

Graves picks Credence up and starts carrying him out the door in a <strike>panicked hustle</strike> one hundred percent dignified and controlled manner.

“But he hasn’t given it you yet! You told Aunt Tina he said he would but now he’s here and you haven’t even _asked _him!”

Small dust clouds left on the street corner as Graves legs it for the horizon.

Newt left at the counter, poleaxed, because Good Fucking Lord Take Me Now Daddy thought he was cute and also apparently remembered that Newt offered him a blowjob and _also_ also was apparently _interested_ in the blowjob Newt offered him.

There’s a minor chance that Justifiable Reason To Sin is married, given the tiny sidekick, but Newt is reminded that mankind is but a small and insignificant speck compared to the vastness of temptation and some things are worth committing adultery for.

Also, Mysterious And Fuckable left his reusable coffee cup behind. This. This has potential.

Newt wonders how many cookies it will take to bribe the sidekick into working for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... People asked for more and apparently I'm weak so. Have more.

Gingerbread, Newt has decided, is devil food.

The theory of it is sound. Add flour and assorted other ingredients to sweet sticky things, dump spices in, yum. The decoration possibilities are also sound, and Newt's even argued his way into being allowed to draw the smiley faces and artfully wonky clothes on a couple of batches - _yes_ thank you, he produced an excellent mix of male, female and non-binary biscuits, lgbt team represent - _but_. But.

While the theory is sound, the _practice_ of gingerbread involves very little in the way of making sexy shiny dough and shaping it into gender non-conforming cookies, and very much in the way of gluing the lid of the golden syrup tin to his elbow and spreading the goopy syrupy goodness to every corner of the planet.

He stares mournfully into his bowl. Raw eggs float on a veritable lake of syrup. At the bottom, fully submerged, sits a single, solitary measuring spoon.

"Why," he asks it. "You were the chosen one, Spoonikin. You were supposed to defeat the sticky side, not join it."

The spoon sits in silent shame and doesn't reply.

"All going well?" Jacob asks from his side of the kitchen. It's currently the crack of ridiculous-o'-clock and the front of house isn't open for another fifteen minutes, giving the two of them the rare chance to coexist in the same part of the building for more than a minute at a time. It's a novel experience; with one of them always having to be out the front they usually only see each other when they swap over. Or when Newt flags Jacob down in panic about something exploding on him, but that's been happening less recently.

It's less to do with Newt discovering previously unknown baking skills and more to do with Jacob's excellent management techniques, but eh. Newt'll take what he can get.

"Fabulous," he says in answer to Jacob's question. "Delightful. Couldn't go better." He brushes his hands off against his apron in a nervous tic and nearly strangles himself when it sticks to his palms. Jacob raises an eyebrow at him but thankfully leaves him to it.

Newt's not completely hopeless, ok. He knows how to ask for help if he _really_ needs it.

"Right, Scamander," he tells himself, staring at the spoon. "Lives depend on you. The gingerbread army awaits. Do it for the horde. Hell, that's a lot of egg." His hand hovers over the bowl. He wiggles his fingers hopefully. The spoon does not wiggle back.

"Fuckit," he finally says, and plunges his hand in. "Oh god oh god oh dear sugary _lord_ this is disgusting. Raw egg. Syrup. The spoon is traumatised. _I_ am traumatised. Oh my god I'm a good person, I have done _nothing_ to deserve this level of _ick_."

Jacob comes over to watch, completely failing to hide his grin. "You know," he says when Newt's finally retrieved the spoon, "It's easier to just pour the syrup in and measure it by weight. Much less faff than counting tablespoons."

Newt makes an inarticulate squeaking sound and drops the spoon in the sink.

"It's a good thing you're pretty," Newt tells the gingerbread people later. They're arranged in a basket on top of the counter, temptingly visible to anyone using the card machine. Also temptingly visible to Newt, but he's a patient man. Jacob will let him have one if there are any left at the end of the day. He can wait. "You'd be too high maintenance otherwise. Not," he hastens to amend, "that it's only ok to be high maintenance if you're pretty, meaningful relationships are more than skin deep - icing deep - but you know, you and I, we're not looking for long term. I need you to sell and pretty people sell. Pretty ginger people. Wow, that actually sounds worse."

He pauses, staring into space as he considers what he's just said. "I sell people," he realises. "Holy shit, I'm basically a pimp."

"What's a pimp?" a small voice asks from the other side of the counter.

Newt freezes. He can't see anyone from this angle which means that either someone's army-crawled into the bakery or he just swore in front of a tiny tiny child.

He leans slowly forwards and looks down.

The tiny tiny child blinks innocently and looks up.

"Pretend you didn't hear that," Newt says with as much confidence as he can muster.

"Why?" the child asks. Newt flounders. He suspects that _because I said so_ will backfire on him spectacularly. Luckily the child throws him a bone: "Is it your secret identity?"

Unluckily Newt takes the bone and panics with it: "Yes, exactly that, I'm - I'm actually a princess in disguise and it's super important that no one knows, particularly not any adults and _specially_ not your parents, right little man?" He smiles and hope it doesn't come across as desperate as it feels.

Actually though, speaking of parents. The bakery's pretty empty. Newt looks around and frowns; they're too late in the afternoon for the lunch crowd and too early for the last-coffee-before-home crowd. Other than George the Geriatric (he's not called George, Newt's just fabulous at naming people) it's just Newt and the kid.

"Hey, mini guy," he says.

"Credence," the kid interrupts.

"You poor thing," Newt says before he can stop himself, then keeps right on talking in the hope that Credence won't notice. "Where're your parents? Are they coming in after you?"

"No."

Newt waits. Surely there must be more forthcoming.

There is not.

"Do you... know where your parents are?"

Credence blinks at him. "No." Once again, he doesn't elaborate.

_Um,_ Newt's brain tells him. _That is a lost child. _Almost on auto pilot Newt lifts the counter top and steps out to crouch down in front of the kid. He's not sure what eye level will hope to achieve, but it's got to be worth a shot.

"Credence," he says. "Why are you here?"

"Because I don't know where Daddy is," Credence answers as though this is perfectly reasonable. "My nanny is mean so I ran away and came to find him."

Newt stares. This. This cannot. What.

Credence brightens suddenly, smiling up at Newt with the most adorable dimpled smile. He shudders in reflexive horror because what, what has the tiny person decided, what could he possibly - "You can be my new nanny," Credence declares. "Daddy thinks you're pretty, so he won't mind."

Ok.

There is a lot to unpack in that sentence.

"Are you familiar in _any way_ with the concept of stranger danger?" is what Newt decides to tackle first. "You can't just - you're, what, four? It's not safe to just run away and go in a random bakery. Even I know that. And you can't just ask people to be your nanny! I could be anyone!"

"You're a princess," Credence says, rapidly descending into a pout. "And it's not a random bakery. It's Daddy's bakery. He likes the crust sons and he gets iced buns on Sundays." He sniffs and raises a sleeve to wipe against his nose. "I want Daddy," he says waterily. Waterly. Wetly. Do not ask Newt to English at the moment, Newt has a crying child in front of him.

(There is a small part of Newt's brain that has also latched onto the word _Daddy_ and is trying to tell him something important, but Newt has grown very good at ignoring that part of his brain.)

"Hey hey hey, don't cry," he flaps. "We'll find him, yeah? You and me, we'll find your dad." He holds out a pinky finger. "I promise, ok munchkin? Princess pinky promise."

Credence sniffs into his sleeve again and Newt suppresses a twitch. Kitchen hygiene. Jacob was very clear on the rules for it. Now is _not_ the time.

"Princess pinky promise," Credence repeats and hooks his finger round Newt's. He then breaks into a sunny grin. "I knew you were a good princess," he says happily. "You're floofy. Bad princesses aren't floofy."

"Um," Newt says. He has the horrible sinking feeling that he's been played, and now that he's promised to help he doesn't actually know how.

His eyes land on the gingerbread army.

"Cookie?" he offers weakly.

"The best princess," Credence agrees, and takes two.


	4. Chapter 4

Actual, real life, genuine _saint_. That’s what Jacob is. Newt could _marry him_. Because, see, remember how Newt said he wasn’t completely hopeless and could ask for help if he really needed? Yeah. _Yeah._

Look. Credence is a small child. Tiny. Look at him, he’s like a more serious dark haired version of the little plastic troll with pink hair that Newt used to keep on the end of his pencil, he’s that small. And he’s lost! Small, lost child, and somehow he’s latched onto Newt as the responsible adult that’s going to make things better.

Newt is twenty three. Newt has so far lied to the tiny person about being a princess and then fed him concentrated sugar and probably ruined his dinner in the process. Newt is neither responsible nor an adult. And Credence has chosen Newt to be his new nanny because Newt is floofy and Credence’s dad - sorry, his _daddy_ \- thinks Newt is pretty.

“We _need_ to work on your judgement abilities,” Newt tells Credence. “I know you’re still in beta testing, but some serious debugging needs to happen here because they're _bad_.”

“Judgement day will see us cast to hell for our sins,” Credence replies in a sing-song tone, which isn’t in any way creepy as shit. He’s sat on one of the tables and swings his feet in time to the words, because, you know, Newt’s clearly not traumatised enough.

“You are the reason they use kids in horror films,” Newt says. “What the fu-uh, funky chicken, what the funky chicken. Why would you say that.”

“My nanny said it. My dad’s a devil-spawn so she has to work extra hard to save my soul from damnation.” He tilts his head, still swinging his feet. “Chicken’s aren’t funky. They’re food.”

Newt stares. Credence is giving no signs that he notices anything weird about what he’s saying. Has he ever met a normal human being, because if his nanny actually said that then she’s a whole other level of whacko that Newt doesn’t really want to address, but if Credence thinks that’s what all nannies say then that opens an _entirely_ different but equally disturbing can of _nope_ and Newt, as an irresponsible non-adult, has no idea how to respond.

“It’s a dance,” he says instead, choosing to table the demented nanny for another conversation. “Funky chicken.” He flails his elbows. “Dance, see. Also, chickens are plenty funky. Have you ever met a chicken? They’re dinosaurs. You know t-rexes? The big ones with teeth? Chickens are modern t-rexes. Plus, they’re really pretty, and much smarter than people think they are. You should meet a chicken. Ask your dad to take you to see a chicken, everyone should see chickens.”

There is a non-zero chance that Newt is freaking out. He’s still flailing his elbows. George the Geriatric has started chugging his coffee in a determined sort of way and is putting his coat on to leave. Thankfully, no other customers are threatening to replace him, but Credence has also not spontaneously turned into what Newt thinks a normal child should be, so. Life can’t all be sunshine.

This is the point where he remembers his lack of hopelessness and fetches Jacob, which he potentially should have done at the start of this chapter before any of this conversation happened, but he hadn’t _known_ then, see. He remembered eventually. He thinks he should get bonus points for that. It was only a few paragraphs delay.

“Wait there,” he says, and chicken-dances his way to the kitchen. Geriatric George puts his coat on faster and abandons the last mouthful of his coffee.

“Jacob,” Newt begs. “There’s a _mini person_.”

“Babyccino is just warm milk with cinnamon,” Jacob says, not looking up from the walnut pieces he’s chopping. “If it’s a toddler see if the parent has a sippy cup, otherwise the normal small coffee size is fine.”

“What? No, he doesn’t - how have I never heard of a babyccino? This is amazing. I want twelve. But Credence ran away from home and we have to save him so can you help first please and then we can babyccino to celebrate after?”

And here Jacob’s sainthood makes itself known: he puts down the massive knife he’s using, brushes his hands off against a clean towel, and comes out to rescue <strike>Newt</strike> Credence just like that, no questions asked. This man is very _epitome_ of ride or die except with less yelling and Newt loves him for it.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll finish chopping those,” Newt volunteers. “They’re for sprinkling on the maple yum yums, right? Cool, I can do that, I love chopping.”

Jacob grabs his elbow on the way past and steers him back out the front.

“Credence,” Jacob says warmly. “Hello again. How are you?” His voice betrays none of the surprise he must be feeling (right? He’s got to be at least a _little_ surprised? Or has Credence done this before? Is Newt caught in the web of a serial run away-er?) and his smile makes Credence duck his head and smile shyly back.

“‘Lo Mr Baker Man,” he mumbles.

“Wait, you know him?” Newt blurts. Credence nods.

“He’s the baker man,” he says, and Newt forgets he’s a proto-human and gives a stink eye because _duh_. Credence, props to him, gives an impressive stink eye of his own straight back.

“His dad’s a regular,” Jacob explains. “Black coffee and a croissant - I’m surprised you haven’t seen him more, you’re usually on the till around the time he comes in.”

(_Daddy,_ a persistent part of Newt’s mind insists, and Newt shoves it back in its sewer with extreme prejudice and pretends he never heard it.)

“Don’t recognise him,” he shrugs. “But you know him, so you can tell him Credence is here, right?”

Jacob shakes his head. “Sorry Newt. I know Graves' order, that’s all. I think he works in town somewhere, but he’s not one for conversation.” He turns to Credence with his calming smile - which, hey, Newt _recognises_ that smile, that’s the smile Jacob uses for _Newt_ and he’s not sure how he feels about Jacob using it for someone else, Credence hasn’t even blown anything up yet - and assures him, “Don’t worry Credence, we’ll get you home one way or another.”

“I don’t want home,” Credence says. “I want Daddy.”

“Then we’ll get you Daddy. Did he leave you with a phone? Or a number to call him?”

“Phones destroy the foundation of society,” Credence recites. He’s swinging his legs again. At least he didn’t sing-song this one, but still. _Creepy._

“Not a phone then,” Jacob says, unphased by the pint sized technophobe sat on the table in front of him. In the background, Newt has been struck by the sudden realisation that _he_ has a phone, and as a child of the information age his phone should’ve been his first port of call.

He pulls it out on the sly and types into the search bar: _what to do if a lost child walks into your bakery._

When it loads, his phone provides: _Body of child missing 20 years is found in mother’s home_

Holy fuck mittens, Credence is right. Phones _do_ destroy the foundation of society.

“Where do you live? Hey, little guy, you walked here, right? Can you just walk home?”

Jacob turns the calming smile on Newt. “Newt,” he says. “No.”

“You can’t say no,” Credence pipes up. “He’s a princess.”

The calming smile doesn’t falter, but Newt can _feel_ the amusement radiating from behind it. He resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Jacob - partly because _why_ no, it sounds like the perfect idea to him. “He’s my bodyguard,” he tells Credence. “We have to listen to what he says.”

And _there’s_ the eyebrow twitch. It wants to go up. Newt _knows_ it wants to go up. Hah, he _wins_.

“Credence, are you ok to stay here for a bit?” Jacob asks, not deigning to acknowledge Newt’s victory. “I’m going to call the police and let them know you’re here in case someone’s looking for you, alright?”

Credence nods decisively. “Talk to Daddy,” he instructs. “He’ll come pick me up.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Do you know what your nanny’s name is, or anyone else who might be looking for you?”

“No. Just Daddy.”

“Alright, but let me know if you think of anyone else, ok Credence? It might help your dad know where you are.”

“Not my _dad_,” Credence insists. “_Daddy_.” He doesn’t seem to want to answer the other half about other people looking for him, and Newt almost interrupts to tell Jacob he doesn’t like his nanny - which, finally, something Newt and Credence can agree on because she sounds _delightful_ \- but then realises this wouldn’t be helpful and in a rare moment of maturity decides not to intervene.

“I can watch him,” he says instead. “Me an’ mini-me, we’re pals. No sweat.”

“I’m not mini-me,” Credence grumps. “I’m Credence_._ Cree-dence.”

Yes, but Newt is never going to be able to say that name with a straight face. “I’m a princess,” he reminds him. “I can’t say people’s names because an evil wizard cursed me.”

Jacob actually pinches his nose at that, but Credence leans forward, fascinated, so Newt counts it as yet another victory. He’s on a _roll_ today.

“Newt,” Jacob starts, then shakes his head. “I’ll get the phone. Try not to break anything until I’m back.”

“Phones destroy the foundation of society!” Newt calls after him. Then, conspiratorially to Credence, “It’s because tiny little gremlins live in the phone lines, and if you don’t keep them happy they eat buildings. You know how you see telegraph poles with all the phone lines lifted up in the air? It’s to keep the gremlins away from anything they can eat, see. Now you know.”

“Gremlins?” Credence repeats, eyes wide.

“Gremlins,” Newt confirms with a sage nod. How has he lived this long without realising how much fun small children are to mess with.

_So much fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Body of child missing 20 years is found in mother's home_ is genuinely the top result I get when I try to search what to do if a lost child walks into a bakery. I want to ask if you guys get the same thing except I'm slightly worried that you get _normal_ results, and it's just Google looking at my search history and deciding I need the creepy murder story more than the actual helpful guides.


End file.
